[Winterfell, 1st moon, 296AC]
The wind howled outside the stone walls of the Great Hall, a soft, mournful whisper that whistled through the arrow slits and rafters, as if the gods themselves listened to what passed beneath the ancient timbers. Snow fell gently beyond the tall, stained-glass windows, flurries drifting down like memories. Within, the hearths blazed and torches flickered, throwing long shadows behind the towering figures of direwolves that flanked the throne of Winter.
Alaric Stark sat upon the ancient seat, carved of weirwood and black stone, shaped by long-forgotten hands. His cloak of snow bear fur pooled about his broad shoulders, and beneath it, his tunic bore the sigil of the direwolf known across all of the north. His face was set in quiet composure, but his eyes, sharp, grey, and deep as a frozen lake, missed nothing.
Tempest and Cinder sat on either side of him like carved statues come to life, their thick coats shining beneath the flickering torchlight. They were nearly fully grown now, taller than any hound or normal wolf, easily the size of small ponies, and yet more graceful, more menacing in their stillness. One need only meet Tempest's pale-blue eyes or hear the soft rumble in Cinder's throat to feel the primal warning that these were no common beasts.
Their presence alone made petitioners falter as they approached the dais.
A bent old man was speaking now, muttering about broken fences and a neighbor's wandering goats. Alaric nodded silently, listening with one ear, his eyes drifting across the hall to where his uncle Ned stood in quiet conversation with Robb. Ned was half-shadowed near a pillar, Red Rain hanging from his hip in its plain leather scabbard.
Alaric's gaze lingered on the sword. It had now been four moons, and still, the memory came with clarity as sharp as frostbite.
He had told the world Red Rain had been bought from a merchant, a man who mourned his dead son, who had taken the blade in battle. The story had been easy to believe, after all, Westeros was littered with tales of swords lost and found. But that had been only a half-truth.
The reality had been more... intricate.
He had desired a blade for Ned, one to match Nightfall, which he had long ago set aside for Benjen. Ned had needed something equal. Not just for balance, but for respect. Symbolism mattered. In the eyes of lords and swords alike.
So he had set his will to it. Through whispered commands and unseen hands, he unleashed Winter's Shadow.
Winter's Shadow was the name he had given to his network of spies and agents, their existence privy to only a select few, less then 10 men total.
It had taken months. A slow weave of information, bribes, forgeries, and subterfuge. He had ensured that House Drumm, those dour Ironborn bastards, were weakened from within. Alaric's agents, loyal men and women who owed him not just coin but purpose, sowed discord in Old Wyk and among the ranks of the Drumms' salt men. Then, on a moonless night, three of Winter's Shadow infiltrated the keep, cloaked in silence, killing none but letting the chaos of loosed prisoners and flaming barns provide ample distraction.
The sword had been taken cleanly. None would ever trace its absence to him. Not truly.
Even now, the thought made his stomach churn, not from guilt, but from how close it had come to failure. Such games were dangerous, even in victory.
Only a handful knew of Winter's Shadow. Even Maester Luwin was unaware, and Ned... well, Ned would not approve. His uncle believed in the old ways, in the weight of honor and the plain truth. Spies were tools of southern kings, or so he thought. Alaric did not disagree, but Winter was vast, and the dark things that stirred in the night were not all men.
"Lord Stark," Maester Luwin's voice cut through his thoughts, bringing him back to focus.
The old man at the base of the throne was bowing, having made his thanks. The next petitioner stepped forward hesitantly, a merchant's son from White Harbor requesting assistance with transport through the northern canal.
Alaric leaned forward, Tempest shifting at his side with a low thrum in his chest. The merchant's son paled but did not retreat.
"Speak plainly," Alaric said, his voice calm but cool as river ice. "What do you seek from Winterfell?"
As the man stammered through his request, Alaric listened, but part of his mind wandered. He wondered how long before the South remembered that the North was no longer broken and divided. Winterfell was strong now. The Moat was rising. The Greycloaks were blooded and tested. And there were whispers from the east, ships with red sails docking near Skagos. Not raiders, yet... not friends either.
The hall slowly cleared as more petitioners were heard. By midday, the last was dismissed, and Alaric rose from the throne, cloaked in furs, and descended from the dais. Tempest and Cinder moved with him, matching his stride without need for command.
[Later that evening]
That night, the Stark household gathered for supper. The high table was long and old, hewn from the heart of a dead weirwood centuries ago. Alaric sat at the center, as was his place, a carved seat of white wood beneath the crest of House Stark.
He ate in silence.
Tempest and Cinder were at his flanks, lounging with casual dominance, their tongues lolling lazily between bites of furred cow steak he threw them now and again. Their tails thumped against the stone floor when they were pleased. The other hounds gave them wide berth.
The hall was warm with fire and laughter. Sansa's table, further down and to the right, was full of giggles and girlish whispers. Alysanne Stark leaned toward her, whispering something that made Sansa flush scarlet. Lysa Dustin and Alys Karstark were both laughing, while Jeyne Poole covered her mouth, eyes wide in amusement. Beth Cassel clapped her hands.
Alaric heard Domeric Bolton's name, and Rodrik Stark's. Both boys had departed for the Vale only a moon ago, newly knighted by Alaric himself beneath the weirwood. Domeric had been quiet, thoughtful, nothing like his father. Rodrik, Ser Torrhen's son, had a wolf's heart and a smirk that made girls giggle.
He chuckled softly as he saw Sansa cover her face. She might have inherited her mother's copper hair, but she had more North in her spirit than Catelyn would ever admit.
Across the hall, the Wolf Pack was in full form. Smalljon Umber's booming laugh echoed off the walls as he slapped Torrhen Karstark on the back hard enough to nearly send the boy into his trencher. Osric Stark smirked over his mug, while Edric Snow wrestled for the last leg of duck with his twin Elric under the table.
It was good to see them strong. Unified. The sons of the North had learned to look at one another as brothers, by blood or by bond, and Alaric had made damn sure it stayed that way.
The doors to the hall creaked open, and Maester Luwin entered, his gray robes soaked at the hem from the snow.
"Lord Stark," he said quietly as he approached, a sealed letter in his hand. "A raven came from Runestone."
Alaric raised a brow and took the letter. He broke the Royce seal with a flick of his knife and read in silence.
To Lord Alaric Stark, Warden of the North,
I hope this letter finds you well. I write to you not with demands, but with a humble request. My third son, Waymar, who is of age with you, has expressed intent to take the black. Though I honor the Night's Watch and all that it stands for, I cannot help but feel my son throws away his potential. He is young, yet tested. His swordsmanship is sharp, his mind thoughtful, and his sense of duty uncompromising.
I wonder if you might have a place for him among your household. Should you deem him worthy, I believe he would serve well among your Winter Guard, or even as an advisor. I do not offer this lightly. I offer strength, loyalty, and perhaps, if fate allows, a bond between our houses that might endure long after we are gone.
He and I will not come alone. My daughter Ysilla wishes to see the North with her own eyes, and I will not deny her. She is... curious about your land.
I await your word. And should it be no, I will hold no ill will.
With respect,
Yohn Royce, Lord of Runestone
Alaric folded the letter and handed it back to Luwin.
"Write to Lord Royce. Tell him that he, Waymar, and Ysilla are welcome at Winterfell. And tell him..." Alaric paused, then continued, "Tell him that I will see if his son's steel is as true as his father's words."
Maester Luwin bowed and withdrew.
A Royce in the hall. And a daughter this time. Ysilla Royce... he wondered what she was like. The Royces bred proud, hard folk. If she was anything like her kin, she'd find the North less foreign than most southern ladies.
As he thought on the matter more, an idea came to him. 'Maybe she would make a good partner for Robb, trade with Runestone will surely flow freely through Moat Cailin in the future, especially with the ever-growing mines being discovered and dug into throughout the North.' Alaric thought as he eyed his auburn-haired cousin.
The fire snapped and popped behind him. Alaric returned to his meal and tossed another bite of steak to Cinder, who caught it midair with a flash of her white teeth.
"Careful," he muttered. "You're getting spoiled."
The direwolf thumped her tail again, unconcerned.
From down the table, Arya shouted something at Berena, who promptly dumped a spoonful of stew into her lap. Branda shrieked with laughter, and even Catelyn, stern and watchful, allowed herself a faint smile, that is, before she got up and reprimanded the two.
Alaric leaned back in his chair, surrounded by warmth, steel, and the beating heart of his house.
Winter was still coming. But the North wouldn't shrink, no, it would prosper.
[The Gates of Winterfell, 2nd moon, 296AC]
The snow had stopped falling by the time the horns sounded. A clean blanket of white covered the world, softening the angles of Winterfell's great walls and cloaking the rooftops in quiet purity. Smoke rose gently from a hundred chimneys, and the faint scent of pine and roasting meats hung in the crisp air.
Alaric stood on the battlements above the main gate, flanked by Tempest and Cinder, who stood alert but silent, their fur brushing against his gloved hands when the wind caught it right. The cold didn't bite him as it once had. He'd grown to wear it like another cloak, part of him as much as the blood in his veins.
He looked out past the walls, down the winding snow-packed road that led to the King's Road, and there they were.
A column of riders approached, banners flapping steadily in the wind. Bronze and black, runes of old First Men carved into their shields and armor. The Royce of Runestone rode at their head, unmistakable in his heavy bronze plate, his great beard touched with more gray than when they'd last met. Yohn Royce looked like a statue carved from the very mountains of the Vale.
At his side rode a young woman, Ysilla, no doubt, her posture proud, her riding cloak trimmed with sable, eyes keen beneath the shadow of her hood. Behind them rode twenty retainers, men of bronze and hard discipline. Waymar was among them too, though which of the younger men he was, Alaric could not yet say.
"A proud host," Ser Harald muttered beside him, arms folded, his black curls speckled with frost.
Alaric gave a quiet nod. "As expected."
The portcullis groaned upward, and the great gates opened wide with a slow creak of old hinges. Alaric descended the steps with long strides, Tempest and Cinder flanking him like shadows with teeth. By the time he reached the snowy courtyard, the Royce party had entered through the gates.
"Lord Royce," Alaric called as they dismounted. "Welcome to Winterfell."
Yohn Royce approached first, his heavy boots crunching through the snow. He gave a small bow, not too deep, not too shallow, and clapped a fist to his chest in greeting.
"Lord Stark," he said, voice like gravel over stone. "Winterfell stands proud. You've done your house honor."
Alaric dipped his head. "I only continue what my forebears began. Come, be welcome. Your people will find warmth, food, and a roof above their heads."
"Uncle, it's good to see you again!" Ser Torrhen exclaimed as he grasped Lord Yohn's forearm in greeting and the two men shared a brief embrace.
Yohn stepped aside and gestured to the girl behind him. "My daughter Ysilla. She insisted she see your North for herself. Says she tires of Vale courtyards and soft rain."
Ysilla pulled back her hood, revealing windswept auburn hair braided tightly behind her head, and sharp gray eyes that studied everything with care. She was not what Alaric expected. She was younger, roughly Robb's age, and had the look of a huntress more than a lady. Her riding gloves were worn, her boots dusted with dry mud even beneath the snow.
"Lord Stark," she said with a curtsy that was practiced but unpretentious. "I've wanted to see Winterfell since I could read. My septa said it was more myth than stone."
Alaric offered a small smile. "Then I hope to disappoint your septa. Come, the warmth waits."
Robb approached then, flanked by Osric and Jon. Robb, ever mindful of courtesy, offered Ysilla a courtly bow. "Lady Ysilla, I am Robb Stark, son of Lady Catelyn and Lord Eddard. My cousin Alaric has told us of your family's valor."
Ysilla raised a brow. "Has he now? I hope he's not given me too much to live up to. I'd rather fail my own standards than another's."
Robb blinked at that, then grinned, the way only a boy full of pride and curiosity could. "We're alike in that, it seems."
Osric chuckled softly, elbowing Robb as they moved to help the Royces stable their horses.
As the retainers began to dismount, Alaric turned to Yohn and gestured toward the inner keep. "Walk with me, my lord. We have things to speak of. Ser Rodrik, see that their men are shown to the hall and served properly."
Ser Rodrik Cassel nodded, already barking orders to stablehands and Greycloaks. Ysilla paused, glancing at her father, then at Robb, before drifting toward the young Stark with an amused smile. "Perhaps you can show me the famous sights of Winterfell I keep hearing about, Lord Robb."
Robb grinned and offered his arm. "Only if you're brave enough to face Arya and the wolf pups along the way."
Ysilla laughed, and the two disappeared toward the inner courtyard, already speaking like they'd known each other a moon's turn.
[Within the Great Hall of Winterfell, Later That Evening]
Alaric and Lord Yohn Royce sat at a side table away from the main feast, where Ysilla and Robb now sat near Sansa and her ladies, the young ones deep in conversation. Waymar had joined the Wolf Pack, drinking quietly beside Edric Snow and Osric, though his movements were more watchful than rowdy.
Cups of mulled wine steamed between the two lords, and the warmth of the fire danced against the stone walls.
"I won't pretend to know your mind, Lord Stark," Yohn began, voice low, "but I know enough of men to sense you've already judged Waymar."
"I've seen how he sits. Straight-backed, quiet, watching," Alaric said, gaze flicking across the room. "I like that. Still waters, as they say."
"He's not the boldest of my sons. Nor the strongest. But he has steel in him. I thought he'd do well in black, watching the Wall, learning the world's sharp edge. But when he spoke of Winterfell, I saw something different."
Alaric sipped his wine. "The Night's Watch would have wasted him."
Yohn raised a brow. "So you'll keep him, then?"
"If he proves himself," Alaric said. "He'll start with the Greycloaks. Squireship beneath Ser Desmond Manderly. If he endures, he'll ride with the Winter Guard by next spring, like all who make the cut, given a command of his own. But he'll need more than skill. He'll need to understand the North. It's pain. It's pride."
Yohn nodded slowly. "He's Royce. He's of the First Men. That blood still burns true."
"I know," Alaric said quietly. "That's why I'll give him the chance."
They fell into silence for a moment, the music of the hall behind them, a harp, a flute, the clink of tankards, and the rise and fall of laughter.
"You think on alliances too," Yohn said at last, eyes glancing toward Robb and Ysilla. "I'm no fool. I see the way your cousin looks at my daughter."
Alaric didn't deny it. "They're young. But it's no sin to let them grow used to each other's presence. If the bond comes naturally... then it is all the stronger."
Yohn grunted. "A Royce and a Stark. It's not the worst match in the world. And if your cousin grows into the man I think he will—"
"He will," Alaric said firmly.
"Then we'll speak again, in time."
They drank to that.
[Elsewhere in Winterfell, the Godswood]
Within in the ancient gods' wood, a raven sat upon a tree branch… watching.
Robb and Ysilla stood in the light snow near the heart tree, its red leaves bright against the white.
Ysilla traced a line in the snow with the toe of her boot. "Your cousin is unlike anyone I've ever met. So still. So... certain."
"That's Alaric," Robb said with a faint smile. "He doesn't flinch. He doesn't stumble. You could set a mountain on fire, and he'd just plan how to use the ash."
Ysilla laughed. "And what of you? Are you just his shadow?"
Robb's smile faded. "No. I'm me. Alaric taught me that, too. The North needs more than one kind of wolf."
Ysilla tilted her head. "I like that."
They stood in silence, the wind dancing through the trees.
"I think I like the North," she said after a moment.
Robb grinned. "Good. Because it's not likely to let you go so easily."
[Back in the Hall, Near Midnight]
Waymar Royce approached Alaric after most of the hall had retired. The young man knelt beside the dais.
"Lord Stark," he said.
Alaric set aside his wine and looked down at him. "Speak."
"I don't ask for favors. I ask for trials. If I'm not worthy, send me to the Wall and I'll take the black with no complaint. But if there's a place in your house for me... I'll earn it."
Alaric stood slowly, his shadow falling long in the firelight. Cinder growled softly beside him, not in warning, but in acknowledgement.
"You'll ride with the Greycloaks come first thaw," Alaric said. "But first, you'll learn from Ser Desmond. If you can keep up, then you may one day guard Winterfell's heart."
Waymar bowed his head. "I won't disappoint."
"I know," Alaric said, then turned back toward the darkened hall, where warmth and wolves waited.